Fingers Still Red With the Prick of an Old Rose
by Poofgoesyourface
Summary: Still haunted by memories, Erik makes the painful realization that he must move on... oneshot, MegErik, EC pairings... based on the ALW 2004 movie


**My second attempt at phanfiction... this time with a hopeful ending...**

"_Fingers still red with the prick of an old rose…"_ U2

That was a long time ago. A new person stood by his side now. A person who wasn't afraid to stand by his side, smile and laugh with him, kiss and make love to him. A person who'd willingly spilled her heart and soul for him. Yet he still felt pain at Christine's passing.

The tombstone was a grey boulder before him, a huge barrier to his life. He was nearing old age, he knew, but that just magnified his mourning. Christine had been so young, so alive, so full of life. He'd rejoiced at the sound of her voice, cherished its memory and kept it close to his heart in the past years. Often he wondered if he loved Christine so long ago for her voice, not herself.

"Erik?"

He looked at the demure blonde woman at his side. "Yes Meg?"

Christine's old friend had tears in her eyes and he gently reached across and wiped them away. "She was so young, so young, Erik."

He looked at the tombstone again and sighed. He wished he could cry, wished he could release his feelings and do away with the pain at her passing. "She was," he whispered. "I loved her, Meg," he said suddenly, not registering who he was saying it to.

Meg looked up at him and nodded. "So did I, Erik. She was the best friend I'd ever had."

They stood there quietly, both pondering their own thoughts. Finally, Erik put his arm around her. "We should go," he said quietly. "The others will be here soon."

Meg was silent for a long moment. "Okay," she whispered. "Goodbye, Christine," she said as they made their way slowly back to the carriage.

The ride home was silent. Erik played with the ring he'd carried in his pocket for the past years, running his thumb over the soft blue stone, almost feeling her skin under his fingers, her voice whispering gently in his mind, singing a song he knew he'd never forget.

_Angel of music, you've deceived me…_

He shook himself away from that memory. He had deceived her, his mind desperate for any kind of love from her. If it was for his voice, then so be it, but it was true, he _had _deceived her, and she could never forgive him for that.

_Why make her lie to you to save me?_

Why indeed? The fop was detestable, a piece of dirt that soiled her perfect skin. He'd hated the man from the moment he first set eyes on him. That hate had hardly lessened over the years. He still harbored a loathing for the man who'd stolen his angel, spirited her away to his castle of daylight. However, now he saw that what Raoul said contained a grain of bitter truth.

How could he have been so shallow? Christine hadn't loved him. She'd refused to see his love for her, refused to allow him into her life, refused to succumb to darkness, to revel in the night and savor its sweet serenity and peace.

But just when he'd known it was time to let go, to leave the world forever and leave everyone to their happy pursuits, he'd found her. Meg. She'd been there for so long. Had he been blind? The girl could hardly sing, but she was so pure, so beautiful that he couldn't believe he didn't see it before. His heart belonged to her now, he knew that ifs she wanted to, she could rip it out of his chest and he would whither without her. If she left, she'd take his heart with her and he'd be left empty, a soulless being to walk the earth until death.

Then why did Christine's passing make him feel as if his heart was in the grave with her? She was from long ago. Meg was his antidote; she'd brought him out of dismal heartbreak. It was as if seeing the grave before him brought back his age old sickness. He drew out the little ring she'd given him so long ago. It was still pure blue, beautiful as her soul. His thumb still made little circles around it, trying in vain to bring back a good memory of her. A good memory that he could bury her with.

"Did Christine give you that?" Meg interrupted his thoughts.

He looked back at her and nodded slowly. "A long time ago," he said softly.

Meg looked at him sympathetically. "It doesn't seem that long ago to me," she said.

He lifted his eyes to her face and fell silent, his words dying in his mouth. Now that he thought about it, it didn't seem like that long ago after all. It didn't seem long at all that Christine was in his arms, singing, her heavenly voice revealing the soul he never thought he had.

He was doing it again. Why did she still have this effect on him? Even in death, she haunted him, her words reverberating through his mind, her skin on his, her eyes lost in his, her soul shrouded in his cloud of darkness.

So long ago… So long ago he called himself the Phantom of the Opera. So long ago he'd reveled in her music, in his music, in _their_ music.

The carriage stopped and out of habit, he got out first and helped Meg down. She buried her head in his chest and he comforted her out of habit as well, his hand making small circles on her back just as his finger was still doing on the ring. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment.

"Monsieur?" questioned their driver.

Erik looked up and pulled away from Meg gently. "Thank you," he said, digging out some coins and handing them to the man before steering Meg up the stairs to their house.

The house was homey, just as Meg wanted it. He'd allowed her to decorate it out of his pure devotion to her. She was his savior now; she deserved that respect. She'd saved him from the morbid depression he'd slipped into at the departure of Christine. He looked at her as more than a lover, more than a friend: an angel, the title that used to be reserved for the beautiful Christine Daae.

"Erik?" she asked.

He blinked, realizing that he was standing in the doorway. This was his life. This was the life he'd accepted when he'd fallen hopelessly in debt to Meg. "Thank you, Meg," he whispered softly.

She smiled at him. "For what, Monsieur?"

He ignored her attempt at light-heartedness. It seemed out of place. "For you," he said, his mind not registering how difficult it would have been for him to say something like that under normal circumstances.

She looked at him, and he could tell her confusion. "Erik?"

He stared at her, marveling at her beauty, her grace and her innocence. Something inside him suddenly seemed to fall into place. Meg's eyes showed that she understood, and she smiled and nodded. "Go on," she said quietly.

"Thank you, Meg," he repeated, giving her a loving glance before retreating out of the house and drawing his hood over his head.

His mind was almost bliss, but there was a weight in his pocket in the form of a little ring.

He stopped only once at the gates of the cemetery to take a rose from one of the bushes. So long ago had he left roses for her. So long ago had he tied those black ribbons, wrapping himself around her soul. So long ago had he heard her voice, her heartbeat, her thoughts. It was time to move on; it was time to bring his heart out of the grave he'd lived in all his life and come to the light. It was time to accept life, to start anew and flourish once more.

His fingers still remembered the familiar action of tying the black ribbon, and he did it with his eyes closed, mentally preparing himself for his rebirth. He slipped the blue ring onto the stem of the flower and laid it on her grave.

When he opened his eyes however, there lay a little drop of crimson blood next to the rose and he glanced at his finger, smiling again. She would rest in peace, and his soul would rest with her, but he would move on.


End file.
